an empire state of mind

I never believed in taking "breaks" from a relationship. When friends would tell me that they were "going on a break" from their [once] significant others, it always just sounded like they were "going on a [really drawn out path towards] break[ing up]."
Of course, it takes falling in love really hard to finally see that periodic absences are sometimes a good thing, and that any intense kind of soul-wrenching love will, at a certain point, get slightly suffocating. Not that it's not hard; but a little time away can make the heart grow fonder...or at least fond enough where quirks are once again charming as opposed to annoying, and you can politely laugh at not-so-funny jokes, instead of rolling your eyes.

So when I arrived in NYC and had to climb five flights of stairs with an Ortlieb bag that weighed almost half my weight and the tractorino that is my bike, I almost gladly used it as an excuse to take some time off the bike. For a full weekend.
Incredible, right? Even I was amazed. But I somehow told myself that this foreign concept of walking more than 20 feet a day was going to be good for me. I'll be using muscles that I just don't use when I'm sitting on my bike or sitting in front of my computer or sitting around with friends. I'll see things that I'll zoom past on a bike. It'll be like riding my bike for the first time to school, I told myself, except slower, and I'll be working my pathetically weak core...!

I wasn't totally wrong. My legs were dead by the end of each day, and climbing those five flights of stairs multiple times a day worked my thighs and glutes harder than my rollers. I realized I could still walk several miles without my legs falling off, but also, how much easier/faster/more efficient/less painful it is to ride a bike.

But I also saw things that I wouldn't have seen on a bicycle. A peculiar man wrapped in some knit garment, hanging out on a crowded corner by Union Square, my legs fully covered in proper pants [not leggings], and despite the bike-friendly reputation of NYC [at least as compared to Boston], walking into Stumptown coffee was way easier sans bike.

Still, I missed the love of my lifey. Or at least riding her...which, given my sometimes-rocky-always-schizophrenic relationship with my bike, is enough to have me jumping back into the saddle. I love New York - and oh the pounds I'd shed if I lived and walked there! - but for today, I'm a little bit glad to be headed back to Boston, where an empty fridge means an excuse to spend that much more time with my two-wheeled wonder.
Sometimes, we all just need a little time away.

poseurcross

A friend once asked me why I didn't just switch my squealing, impossible to adjust cantilever brakes - the front refuses to STFU, so in retaliation, I refuse to use it - to center pull caliper ones.
"It's not like you're ever going to race 'cross," he said.
I stubbornly refused to switch them out though; and for once, I distinctly remember that decision being motivated by something other than my automatic reaction to being told that I can't do something ["Oh yeah? Watch me"]. Because even though I had no idea what cyclocross was when I bought my tractorino, once I found out, I've been secretly crushing on it since.
I mean, who can resist a cycling event that looks so hardcore. Not only does it involve biking through grass and mud, you have to run [up hills, even!], and then jump over stuff. It looks like pure masochism. It totally turns me on.
Unfortunately, I currently lack the balls to actually do it. But laziness and the need to go to the BC main campus sometimes fires up the cyclocrosser poseurcrosser in me. Because when the options are biking up a hill or taking the stairs with a bike over your shoulder, well, I made the obvious choice.

Okay, I admit, I didn't run up them. More like plodded at a steady pace while the undergrads snickered about the psycho girl hauling her bike up too many stairs. And those stairs were killer. But they still fuel daydreams of running up them in cycling shoes with friends, bikes over our shoulders, in preparation for an up-coming cross race. Only to descend them to do it all over again, thighs burning, heart and lungs about to burst, but still laughing.

It hasn't happened yet, but those agonizing cantilever brakes are a constant reminder. Through all its screaming - when I absolutely need to use it - my front brake keeps that dream alive. I'm definitely keeping my fingers crossed on this one.
No pun intended.
[My favorite underage bike mechanic is turning 21 today, too -- Happy Birthday Chris!!!]